chicken scratch--literally

If I'm being honest, and you always should when you write, I am best at prose, these days. Chicken scratch. And writing on photographs. I'll show you if you ask. It's like painting. Well, no, it is painting. It's using words to paint a picture. No, it's using a picture to paint your words...
I realize some people actually want to know how to write. Well, I won't spend your time or mine on grammar or punctuation...but it does matter. Anyway, you-just-write-and-don't care. You will find something in yourself when you do that and it will surprise you what you were thinking.
nostalgia
perplexed? don't fall through
the ice-
i only said hello
i slept in a canopy of howls
and marked the way back
with pieces of bread
crumbs

...and then you can shape it later, if you want to shape it later...

This-is prose. I think it's horrible that Ginsberg had a thing for boys in his basement, and I can't say I stand for all of 'Howl' but it's brilliant. Always been one of my favorites. Read it. Read America. William Carlos Williams- another one. His short stories make me want to write and make sense of something. He will make you want to write like dancing.
I wrote "I miss you" in the sky with a flashlight- from the base of "somewhere over the rainbow" listening to bon iver and thinking about trains. you would understand, i think. and in another life, you may appreciate that. but I don't believe in other lives...just this one.

Main st smells like a big city if you catch it by a donut shop, someone smoking, coffee in hand and the sound of a bus. the city is everywhere. the whole rest of the world is an inch- ONE INCH from the tip of my nose. my porch. the whole-world.
it seems strange to feel trapped when you think of it that way.

i live in a town where I can say i took my dress to francis st and everyone know I am talking about the cleaners.

each step of the walking waking world would make the most incredible song...the-most-incredible song. I don't find myself in a new pair of shoes like some people I know. I don't think it's bad that they do, in fact I am jealous, probably. perhaps I am the dullard. it's like you see your whole life broken in to pieces when you need the big picture, like a daunting landscape of years and vacations and pictures that tell a story you wish you were a part of. i am not the den mother. I am not the voice of reason in the thriller. am i?

sang in my head the entire time was bumpy
i think it rained yesterday
was windy and I was
numb

i told my sister I would write about what I would tell the 17 year old me. surprisingly, i have only a few things for now...if it's possible to even attempt that novel, here is the beginning, I suppose:

play basketball this year. you will still want to kick box in 10 years, and you can--then.

keep playing-the-piano.  sing more. sing. sing. sing. don't stop singing your freshman year of college. sing. it wakes your soul up. don't forget that, it will change you temporarily if you forget that.

don't get in the car with 'X'.

don't fall for something later just because it's a really good story. you will realize, all too late, that's all it was--a really good story.  and the irony of your life will be that you are the only one who won't buy it.

prose.